


A Late Evening in January

by FalconFate



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: ...a surprising amount of swearing, Angst, F/M, Have at it, I wanted to do this because of a cute little prompt, I’m just pasting skimming and posting, Kilgharrah is a cat, M/M, bear with me, but we have to swim through angst first, listen I was up intil 4am writing this, second chance arc?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 09:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15337173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconFate/pseuds/FalconFate
Summary: Everyone’s back, even Mordred and Morgana, even Will.Everyone, that is, except the one person that matters the most.





	A Late Evening in January

**Author's Note:**

> I was up until 4 in the morning writing this, and there is more to come. But sleep is important. So here, enjoy! Join me in my suffering.

At this point, Merlin had just accepted that his friends were coming back one by one, in no particular order.

Morgana had been the first dropped into this strange future, alone and scared and confused, devastated that magic had simply slipped from the world and been forgotten. But she adjusted quickly, and moved into the flat across from Merlin’s. She soon got a job as a social worker, and Merlin could see that she cared _so much_ for the kids she worked with.

When Gwen came back, younger than when she had died but as dignified as she’d been in old age, she hugged Merlin close. She’d been the first to notice that Merlin didn’t age as he should, and the first to even begin to comprehend the loneliness. She, too, adjusted quickly to the future; she stretched an olive branch to Morgana and offered forgiveness and reconciliation, and they were soon sharing a flat. Gwen soon had a career as an artist in metalworking, creating anything from intricate sculptures to decorative blades in a smithing studio down the street.

Lancelot just… appeared, one day. Merlin found him at a restaurant packing away two entire entrées and a generous slice of carrot cake, so casual that Merlin nearly convinced himself that whoever this was just looked a lot like Lance. Until, that is, he spotted Merlin, and a huge grin practically broke his face.

As it turned out, Lancelot had been back for a while, and wrangled himself a job as a security guard for the local bank. When he saw Gwen, his eyes became sad, but she hugged the living daylights out of him. Morgana was incredibly awkward around the two of them, until she finally gathered the courage to apologize—and was shocked to find herself forgiven.

And then Morgana came back from work one day in hysterics because someone had brought Mordred in from the streets, mute and terrified and _ten years old_ —and then they had a mute (but less terrified) ten-year-old living with them, communicating solely in messy crayon pictures and occasional telepathy.

It was all very bizarre, how they settled into this all so easily. Gwaine and Percival came back together, Gwaine riding piggyback, just stumbling out of the woods onto Merlin’s mail route. Gwen found Elyan outside the studio one morning, reading the signs curiously. Leon was suddenly working at the bakery down the street. Will appeared in the farmer’s market selling eggs and goat’s milk.

Merlin even had a theory that Kilgharrah and Aithusa had come back, as a large yellow tabby and a small, fluffy white cat respectively. Morgana had immediately adopted the little white cat and, unsure of whether she was a reincarnation of the dragon or not, named her Aithusa anyway. The somewhat-feral tabby liked to alternate between scaring the shit out of Merlin when he made coffee in the morning by appearing on his windowsill, and skulking in the woods.

Which, judging by the very few scars the tabby bore, and his obvious age, Merlin decided he could handle. He nicknamed the cat Gharrah, just in case.

But, of course, someone was conspicuously, obviously, _painfully_ missing.

It wasn’t Uther—no, Merlin did not want to deal with bloody _Uther_ in the modern day of the twenty-first century. It wasn’t Gaius either, although Merlin would have loved to give the old man a hug, one last time. It wasn’t even Morgause, although Morgana sometimes told funny stories about her, and she would probably pop up somewhere, because that would just be Merlin’s luck.

No, it was a certain dollophead Royal Prat™, Once and Future-But-Apparently-Not-Until-Literally-Everyone-Else-Had-Already-Reappeared King of Camelot.

Arthur Pendragon still had yet to slot into Merlin’s strange new reality, and now he was at a pub, in a corner booth with all of his friends, pouting about it. Merlin was on the edge of the booth seat, next to Will, who was cheerfully engaged in conversation with Leon, Gwaine, and Percival. Lancelot and Gwen were pressed together, three months into dating after almost a year of awkward distant pining. Morgana was on Gwen’s other side talking with Elyan, one hand running through Mordred’s hair while he scribbled on a sheet of paper with the crappy pub crayons. Merlin still gave himself whiplash sometimes, seeing them all in T-shirts and jeans (except for Morgana; she dressed in sharp suits and tightly-wound hair buns), using _phones_ and ordering _chips_ because _this was life now_.

Of course, a phone was what he was using right now to distract himself from the fact that he was brooding. Lots of cat videos, vine compilations, YouTuber vlogs, behind-the-scenes footage of Marvel movies. Funny things, cheerful things, full of funny people, and ride-or-die friendships, and badly explained inside jokes because you just _can’t explain_ a good inside joke—

Okay, maybe he should stick with the cat videos.

An elbow caught him in the side. “Oi, Merlin,” Will whispered, “you’re in a funk. Be a human for once.”

“I’m over fifteen hundred years old, Will,” Merlin replied dryly. “I’ve had plenty of time to be human, allow me this chance to be a brainless husk.”

One of Gwaine’s chips nailed him on the nose. “If you’re gonna be a grandpa, Merlin, be a fun grandpa!”

About three quarters of the table cheered in a chorus of agreement; the others just laughed. Except Mordred, obviously; he squinted at Merlin, scribbled furiously on a piece of paper, then lifted it to reveal two (surprisingly good, the kid has some talent) caricatures of Merlin. One had a sad face and a red ‘X’ over his head, and the other a happy face and a green check.

Merlin huffed.

“He’s not wrong,” Morgana pointed out, snickering. “Join a conversation! Ooh, tell us, have you met anyone historically famous? You don’t talk much about life before we showed up.”

Sighing, Merlin slipped his cell into his pocket. “I mean, not very many,” he said. “I got to see a Shakespeare play and meet Shakespeare, for like, two minutes.”

“Oh, what play?” asked Lancelot.

“‘As You Like It,’” Merlin answered, smiling at the memory. “One of the characters was a woman pretending to be a man, but she was played by a boy—women weren’t allowed to act in Elizabethan England, it was ridiculous. Some of the funniest, most well-delivered lines I’ve ever seen, certainly one of the best performances I’ve ever seen.”

“We should all go see a play!” Elyan exclaimed. “There’s a local theater, two blocks from the studio, I think they have a showing in a couple of weeks.”

The table murmured with agreement, but soon enough devolved back into separate conversations: Lancelot and Percival discussing the finer aspects of different theater genres; Will, Elyan, Gwen, and Leon discussing their favorite literature from the period of time between the fifth and twenty-first centuries; Gwaine and Morgana praising Mordred’s miniature crayon masterpieces.

And Merlin was left brooding, again. So he excused himself for the loo, or a breath of fresh air, or something he thought was believable even if it left Will frowning after him, and all but fled the table.

He stumbled outside, then belatedly realized that it was a late evening in January, and he’d left his coat inside. Merlin shivered in the snow for a solid minute, debating going back in—and _then_ he remembered that, oh wait, he had bloody _magic_. A quick warming charm, and he was free to round the corner and lean against the wall in the alley.

Tears stung his eyes, and he wiped them away furiously. Why couldn’t he be happy with what he had?! His childhood friend was back. His adulthood friends—family, even—were back. Mordred had a second chance. Morgana had a second chance. Gwen and Lancelot had a chance to explore a relationship together. Gwaine had the chance to put a name to and be truly open about his bisexuality.

Merlin should be happy. Ecstatic, overjoyed, giddy with elation, and here he was, sobbing in a back alley because he _couldn’t have it all_ . He got to watch his best friend die in his arms, watch the life leave the eyes of the king—the man—who Merlin had loved unconditionally, and now he watched as everyone _except_ Arthur came back to life.

No. No, fuck this! Kilgharrah had told him that the Once and Future King would return when Albion was in need, but what about Merlin?! He’d saved that prat’s life more times than he cared to count (he’d counted, and then lost count at 73), he’d watched himself fall in love with the handsome idiot even as the handsome idiot fell in love with smart, beautiful Gwen, he had even started to count on Arthur always being there, always being his friend, always having his back—he’d begun to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could tell Arthur his deepest, darkest secrets. Magic, of course, but more than that, the dreams he rarely allowed himself, dreams of the future, dreams of the endless possibilities… possibilities that were dashed as soon as Kilgharrah reminded him of destiny.

“Well, you know what?” Merlin muttered. “ _Fuck_ destiny.”

“ _Mrraow_.”

Lo and behold, Gharrah the huge grumpy tabby had appeared in front of him. He was perched atop a trash can, tall enough to almost be eye-level with Merlin, glaring the warlock down with pale, judgmental amber eyes.

Merlin glared right back. “I don’t really care if you’re actually Kilgharrah right now, but if you are, then  _fuck you_. I lost my best friend to destiny. I lost _all_ of my friends to destiny. I could have saved _all_ of them if I hadn’t listened to you!”

The cat made no reply, and didn’t leave. He simply waved his long fluffy tail as if to say, _Go on._

And Merlin did go on, his hands beginning to wave wildly. “You were always telling me about the prophecy, that ‘the witch and the boy would conspire to kill Arthur.’ You told me not to trust them, you told me to shun them, all in the name of _protecting Arthur_ , and look where it got me! I lost two good friends to evil insanity and got Arthur killed!” His tirade slowed as his voice faltered, cracked. “I loved him, Gharrah. As a friend, more than a friend… maybe you were right, two sides of the same coin or some other cockamaimie shit, but I _loved_ him. I loved him like trees love the sun and the rain, and I loved him more every day. Of course I couldn’t tell him, but I kept plenty of secrets, didn’t I? What was one more?”

At this point, Merlin slid down the wall to sit awkwardly in the snow piled against the pub. “He was kind, and he cared, and he was smarter than he realized, just not in the way he thought smartness mattered, but he was also so fucking _dumb_. And now everyone else is back, living out their dreams, getting second chances, and I should be happy for them. I _want_ to be happy for them,” Merlin sobbed, tears staining his cheeks. He had more to say, but his voice finally failed him, and he pressed his face into his arms and knees, finally breaking down in the way he hadn’t allowed himself to do since Morgana had come back.

After fifteen hundred years of hiding his sorrow, as well as witnessing firsthand society’s progressively more toxic perception of masculinity, Merlin knew how to cry quietly. The few passersby on the street didn’t notice him, and his friends hadn’t yet come looking. Kilgharrah sat there still atop his can of trash, a silent sentinel, passing judgement on passing pedestrians who hurried on to escape the piercing yellow gaze of an overly large yellow cat.

But someone saw him. Someone who crept through the brush, and watched silently from the shadows behind the row of buildings on the edge of town. Someone who heard every word Merlin had to say, someone who watched every tear fall; someone who remembered those same tears from the same man, minutes ago? Centuries ago? Did time really matter when you were back from the dead and desperate to give this man who was so loyal, so brave, so broken—desperate to give him, your best friend, a hug?

Arthur wasn’t sure how to approach this. Merlin had called him _smart_. And _kind_. It didn’t seem smart or kind to just announce his presence from the inky shadows. So, slowly, Arthur stepped closer, and closer still. Carefully closing the distance, strangely silent even though he was shivering in armor and boots, in dirty snow.

Merlin was a tightly-wound ball of sadness and despair and hadn’t even noticed Arthur standing there. The cat blinked his huge yellow eyes at him. Arthur took a deep breath.

And he sat down. And he pulled Merlin close. And he held him tightly, even when Merlin froze in shock. Arthur tried to allow time for realization to sink in. He could be patient for that. He took the time to wonder why Merlin was so warm; was he sick? Did he have a fever? Had someone poisoned him again? And maybe the thought of Merlin being in danger made Arthur cling to him more tightly, maybe the snow began to fall and alight in Merlin’s hair to highlight just how dark it was, and then Arthur noticed that it was longer than he remembered it being, and softer, less shiny. Arthur wondered how long he’d been dead.

Merlin twitched. “You’re shivering,” he muttered. “You’re _clanking._ ”

“Well, you don’t have a coat,” Arthur countered, refusing to let his teeth chatter. “Why aren’t you shivering?”

Merlin twitched again—actually, that time it was more of a spasm. A very strange sensation, holding someone who was spasming. “Magic,” he finally whispered; hoarse, like it pained him to say it, like he was… scared to say it.

“Oh, obviously,” Arthur muttered. A beat passed, and Arthur was still cold. “...care to share?” he asked hesitantly. Immediately, Merlin whispered an incantation, and warmth spread from Arthur’s chest to his limbs and extremities. Oh, that was nice; Arthur had forgotten the last time he was warm. When was that, anyway? Before the battle, before… before.

Unwilling to dwell on it, Arthur shifted Merlin to a more comfortable position against his side, so that instead of being shoved under his armpit and elbow, Merlin now leaned a little more against Arthur’s chest and shoulder. The cat on the trash can flicked an ear and jumped down from his perch, stalking away into the dark woods Arthur had just come from.

“Soooo,” said Arthur, drawing out the word, “I take it you missed me?”

“Understatement,” Merlin muttered.

“You called me smart.”

“Mmff.”

“Is this another one of your made-up words? _Mmff_? What does this one mean, _Mer_ lin? I’m already the definition of dollophead, according to you, what’s this vowel-less collection of consonants mean?”

Merlin finally craned his head to look Arthur in the eye, and Arthur got a good look at Merlin’s red-rimmed blue eyes and tear stained cheeks. “It means ‘mmff,’” Merlin said stubbornly. His mouth twitched at the corners, and Arthur couldn’t hold back a broad grin.

“So I can take it to mean ‘Yes I called you smart because I secretly think you’re the absolute best person in the whole world and I hide my envy by constantly teasing you’?”

Merlin dropped his head back against Arthur’s shoulder with a muffled _clunk_. “...mmff.”

“Oh, I get it. It’s Merlin-shorthand for ‘yes.’”

“Shut up.”

“Never.” 

**Author's Note:**

> .......join me in my suffering. It’s been like five years and I’m not over this show.


End file.
